


Five Times—No, Six Times Hutch Gave In, and One Time He Didn't

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like the title says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times—No, Six Times Hutch Gave In, and One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Starsky and Hutch 2010 Advent Calendar.
> 
> My thanks to Enednoviel for hosting the calendar, and to Dawnebeth and Kat for their wonderful beta skills and faithful cheerleading. All errors are mine.

  
**\- I -**   


Hutch was, in a word, dumbfounded.

"Y-you actually bought this?" he finally managed to say.

"I did. Ain't she a beaut?" The pride in Starsky's voice was unmistakable. He leaned over to flick an imaginary speck of dust from the glossy hood of the car and looked up at Hutch, grinning.

" _It_ is an eyesore. I can't believe you did this _now_."

"Well, I kinda had to. The guy who runs the Ford dealership just happened to owe Uncle Al a favor, see? So, when I found that out, I went down to his lot to see him. And there she was, like she was waiting for me. Like it was meant to be." He paused as though waiting for cheers and applause. When none was forthcoming, he continued hurriedly, "He gave me a terrific deal, even threw in the paint job, but he needed to get her off the lot right away, so I had to act fast. It—"

"Wait. 'Threw in the paint job'? You mean, it wasn't already painted like this? You _asked_ for it to be...." Hutch stepped back and squinted, but it was no use, the car was still an eye-popping red. And white. Good grief. "But what about our new assignment? How are we supposed to cruise our beat in _this_?"

"In style, my boy, in style." Starsky laughed as Hutch threw up his hands. "Aw, c'mon, being a Zebra unit ain't gonna be all that different from what we've been doing, anyway."

Which was true. While it hadn't been official until now, they'd been handling the tough cases all along, ever since they'd moved to Metro. Still....

"We weren't doing it in a friggin' Coke can! And what's going to happen when we go undercover? We might want to be inconspicuous, just for the hell of it; you even think about that? You know, so we can sneak up on the bad guys?"

"Then we'll just take your car, no problem." Starsky, unfazed, shrugged off the sarcastic tone. "Never thought I'd say it, but that hunk 'a junk might come in handy. Just on those rare occasions, of course."

Hutch frowned as hard as he could, but it made no dent in the cheerful, enthusiastic optimism that was his partner's trademark; always had been, ever since he'd known him.

Starsky walked and talked—hell, he breathed—with the certitude of a man completely comfortable in his own skin. That abundance of natural, easy confidence sometimes drove Hutch nuts, but he envied it as well. He'd never known that kind of self-assurance. Oh, he managed, he wasn't really all _that_ insecure, but he was always keenly aware of the fact that it wasn't the same for him as it was for his friend. Starsky was at home virtually anywhere, but Hutch? Well, he was still trying to find where "home" was.

Hutch sighed. He knew he was championing a lost cause, but he gave it one last shot. In as stern a tone as he could muster, he said, "Do you really think the Captain is going to let you get away with driving this striped tomato on the job?"

"Aw, Hutch, he's not gonna care." At Hutch's skeptically raised eyebrow, he amended that to, "Well, not much. So long as you don't... I mean, it's really up to us, isn't it?" The "us" was underscored by a touch to his arm and a pleading gaze. "You're gonna back me up, help me convince the Cap'n, right, partner?"

Hutch sighed and tried to look anywhere but at his friend's hopeful face. _Geez, puppies have nothing on you, pal._

He had to admit, if only grudgingly and to himself, that the Torino suited Starsky's personality: solid, powerful, and charismatic. A force to be reckoned with. Hutch normally dismissed the notion of a car as a phallic symbol, but there was no denying that this one was sexy. Yeah, it was a lot like his partner.

Ultimately, though, it was the expression on Starsky's face that did it. His partner was lit up like Christmas, New Year's, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one, and Hutch knew he didn't have it in him to extinguish that light.

Hutch made sure he kept his scowl fixed firmly in place before he caved. It wouldn't do to let Starsky think he was _too_ easy.

"I must be out of my mind—"

Starsky's triumphant whoop drowned out the rest of his words.

"Atta boy! I knew I could count on you, buddy." Starsky thumped Hutch on the shoulder fondly with more of that cheerful enthusiasm— _a little too much_ , thought Hutch, wincing. "C'mon, I'll take you for a ride. You'll love her, I promise. She rides like a dream."

 

  
**\- II -**   


Hutch awoke, stiff and cramped, with his back drenched in sweat. Confused and disoriented, he struggled to clear the fog from his sleep-laden mind. For a moment, he lay still and wondered what roused him. The feeble glow coming through the window meant dawn was still far off, and all seemed quiet outside.

His left arm was pinned under him, tingling with pins and needles. As he rolled over to free it, he bumped up against a warm body behind him. _What the hell?_

"Starsky? Wha—? Whassamatter?"

"Nothing, babe. Go back to sleep." The immediate and clear response told him Starsky was already awake.

 _Oh, no._

"I-I did it again, didn't I? Oh shit, Starsk—"

Hutch swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sat up, buried his face in his hands. It was all a blank.

"No, no; nothing happened, Hutch. Really. It's okay." Starsky sat up behind him and rubbed Hutch's arms briskly, up and down, as though it was cold in the room. Maybe it was.

 _Fuck._

"I don't even remember, Starsky. What did I do?"

"Nothing, I told you. C'mon Blondie, it's early yet. You need rest."

Hutch pulled away from Starsky's hands and stood up. He pushed shaky fingers through his hair, then scrubbed at his face, his arms, as though the motions would soothe the itch that still prickled under his skin.

"I thought I was past this, I thought..."

 _Stupid, so stupid. Like this was ever going to be over._

*****

  


The first night after the Forest arrest, Hutch had found it impossible to stay asleep. He was beyond exhausted, physically and emotionally, but every time his eyes closed, wild and macabre images chased him back to wakefulness. And below that, snaking right under the surface, the restless craving for the heroin was ever-present—simmering, ready to boil over.

"Hutch?"

Hutch blinked. He was standing at the front door, his hand on the knob. There were iron fingers clamped around his forearm. He didn't remember getting out of bed.

"Babe, where're you going?" Starsky's voice was so soft, so gentle. His hand, so hard.

"I-I need... I gotta take a walk." He tried to jerk his arm away, but the death grip got even tighter.

"It's two-thirty in the morning, Hutch."

"So? They roll up the sidewalks after midnight?" His tone was belligerent, but it didn't mask the quaver he couldn't control.

"You're not going anywhere." Starsky tugged insistently, and Hutch suddenly snapped. With a desperate growl, he twisted out of Starsky's grasp, shoved him aside, and ran out the door.

He had almost made it to his car when he was tackled from behind, a hurtling solid weight that bore him down to the ground. He struck out instinctively but without control, flailing wildly. Garbage cans crashed and fell.

"Damn it, Hutch, cut this shit out!" Starsky hissed. "You want your neighbors to call the cops?" Unheeding, Hutch kept fighting desperately to break free.

Starsky finally locked him in a bear hug, pinning his arms in. Hutch struggled for maybe a minute more, but he was weak, so damned weak. He slumped over, defeated, almost sobbing in frustration. Starsky wouldn't relinquish his hold, so they lay there, both of them panting heavily.

When Starsky got his breath back, he said, "You ready to go back in now, or you want to go another round?"

Hutch shook his head, too tired to argue. On rubbery legs, he allowed himself to be dragged back inside, back to his bed.

"I wasn't trying to score, Starsk. I just needed to get out, to...." he trailed off, not sure exactly what he needed, what he'd meant to do. He rolled to his side, facing away from Starsky.

He felt the mattress give slightly, and a hand squeezed his shoulder, working the knotted muscles a little. After a moment, Starsky said, "Yeah, well, you weren't gonna get far, barefoot and no car keys. Try to get some rest, huh?" Hutch tried to relax, to let the offered comfort soothe his troubled thoughts.

With a final pat, Starsky got up, and Hutch had to resist the urge to turn and stop him. Hutch listened to the footsteps of his partner as he went back to his pillow and blankets on the couch.

Finally, he whispered, "You don't have to worry. I won't try it again."

But the next night, he did. And the night after that.

On that third night, Starsky didn't head back to the couch. Instead, without a word, he got in the bed next to Hutch. Hutch, exhausted and ashamed, bit his lip and didn't object.

And slept straight through until morning for the first time since the kidnapping.

*****

  


"Nothing happened tonight," Starsky insisted, coming around to face Hutch.

In the dark days following his ordeal, Starsky had been his lifeline, and Hutch clung to him with the desperation of a drowning man. His partner's constant presence had been a balm to Hutch's soul, oil poured out over his troubled waters. Slowly, the physical cravings for the heroin had receded and the worst of the withdrawal effects were now gone. Even the nightmares had stopped, held at bay by his partner's watchfulness. Hutch could sleep, knowing that Starsky was there next to him, ready to slay the dragons that threatened to devour him.

Starsky, his lifeline. Hutch was grateful beyond words, but a small nagging voice whispered that he was just trading one addiction for another. He already relied on his best friend for so much, on and off the job. He'd never given it much thought before, but when he had, he'd always seen it as an asset, an edge they had that made them better cops. It hadn't occurred to him that the edge could cut both ways: if together they were more than the sum of their parts, then apart from Starsky, Hutch was less than whole.

That fact must have been all too obvious to his partner. Starsky had seen him at his worst, when the drug had stolen his will, ripped out his soul and left his body a useless, broken shell. Hutch had only a hazy recollection of most of what happened while he was strung out, but Starsky's stricken expression in the alley where he'd been found was burned into his brain, this memory as clear and sharp as a brand.

One look told Hutch that it was still haunting Starsky as well—the pain lingered in the tired shadows of Starsky's face, in his wary, watchful eyes, in the tense line of his back.

"Nothing happened, Starsky? Bullshit. Last I checked, you were on the couch. Why else were you back here?" Hutch gestured at the bed. More than a week had passed, he'd been sleeping better. He'd been so determined to prove that he could get through the night on his own, that his partner didn't need to babysit him like some frightened child afraid of the monster in the closet. "I thought I could do this, but obviously I can't. The first time I try, I screw it up again."

"Hutch, I swear that ain't it."

"Then, why—"

The answer was glaringly obvious, and Hutch felt his heart sink. _Oh._ He dropped his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry, Starsky. I should've known. I guess it's too soon to expect you to trust me." _If you ever can again._

"What? No!" Starsky grabbed Hutch's arms, startling him. The hands pushed him back to sit on the bed. Starsky sat next to him, angling his body to face Hutch.

Now it was Starsky who looked away. He seemed to be struggling for the right words, or maybe for the courage to say them. Hutch waited, hopeful and doubtful at the same time. Starsky's reaction was promising, but....

 _But if that's not the problem, then what the hell?_

Starsky drew a deep breath and set his shoulders. Even when so much was riding on what would happen next, Hutch had to admire his partner's strength. Starsky was never one to shy away from the hard truth.

"It's not you, Hutch. It's me. I tried to stay on the couch, I really did. But I couldn't sleep. I couldn't hear you. Couldn't feel you breathe. And it made me crazy. I... guess I got used to being here, right here. I needed to be where I could see you, watch you. Know you're safe." He hung his head. "I'm sorry, Hutch. I know I'm crowding you, and you think it means I don't trust you. But nothing could be further from the truth.

"You're gonna make it back, Hutch, all the way. I have no doubts about that. It's just... when I think about how close it was, how I almost lost you...." He stopped and raised his head. The look on his face tore at Hutch.

"Oh, Starsky." Hutch pulled his friend in close and tried to stem the tide of anguish that had been held in check for too long. "Hey, it's okay, I'm here. You found me, you saved me—"

But Starsky was beyond hearing anything, his head too full of the dark scenario that so easily could have been.

"I almost lost you and I might never have even known what happened! Oh God, Hutch...." His face, his whole body was pressed up tight against Hutch, like he was trying to absorb the other into himself. Hutch felt tears splash wet and hot against his skin, and his own throat ached.

"Shh, babe. 'M sorry, I know you were scared, but it's over, you did it, I love you...." The need to comfort was automatic, and Hutch kept up a soft litany, knowing it was the sound and not the words that mattered. But as he said the last, Starsky went taut as a wire. Worried anew, Hutch drew back a little so he could see his face. "Starsk?"

"I love you, too, Hutch, you know that, right?" Starsky said in a hoarse whisper. When Hutch nodded and started to reply, Starsky quickly lifted a hand for silence.

"I know I don't say it much, but I do. I love you and I trust you, same as always. I mean it. Do you believe me when I say it? Do you trust me enough to believe that I believe in you, even if you don't believe in yourself?"

The Starsky-logic was enough to make Hutch's head spin, but in the center of that vortex was something rock-solid and unyielding.

 _So who do we trust, huh?_

 _Like always, me and thee._

To Starsky, it really was that simple. Me and thee.

They were a package deal, more than simply partners on the job and best buddies off. Hutch suddenly realized that Starsky's steadfast belief in who he was had somehow grown to include Hutch, to encompass him, body and soul. It defined Hutch's own place in the world, there at Starsky's side. Despite everything that had happened, amazingly that space hadn't collapsed, hadn't closed up, hadn't changed so much as one iota. It was a humbling thought.

"I believe... I believe in you, Starsky."

He was rewarded with a sigh of relief and a faint smile.

"Good, that's good, Hutch. That'll do until you're ready to believe in yourself again."

Hutch slid back into his safe haven, felt it encase him like a second skin, knew it was where he belonged. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this kind of loyalty, but that wasn't going to stop him from grabbing the gift with both hands and holding on.

Holding on for Starsky. Holding on to Starsky. Starsky holding on to him.

For dear life.

 

  
**\- III - & \- IV -**   


Hutch watched as Starsky made his way slowly into the living room. He stepped carefully, his eyes on his feet, as if navigating a path through the debris of the night before, even though Hutch had already cleaned up hours ago. There hadn't been much anyway, just a few empties and some scattered cards, nothing like the last time.

The last time....

 _I didn't want to play football in Canada, anyway._

 _Why not?_

 _Too cold. Don't wanna be a pelican._

 _Well, we gotta be something, right, if we're not gonna be cops?_

 _Well, maybe we ought to go down to South America and try robbing banks._

 _Aw, c'mon, get serious, will you?_

 _I should get serious. That's why you want to sign us up for the Canadian Football League.... Here you go. Open it up._

After the gifts were opened, they continued drinking themselves into a stupor, and Hutch didn't remember anything else except the massive hangover of the next day.

But last night—they hadn't been wasted last night. No excuses for what happened. No convenient memory lapses, either. Every detail was sharp, crystal clear.

So sharp, you barely felt the cuts until you saw the blood.

*****

  


Hutch got the call earlier that afternoon from the D.A.'s Office. After months of countless motions and continuances it wasn't completely unexpected, but still, it was a kick in the gut.

"Sorry, Hutchinson. The doctors still say he's insane. He'll never stand trial."

"Maybe those doctors need _their_ heads examined!" Hutch replied angrily.

"Look, I realize you're not happy about this, but even our psychologist made the same assessment. Believe me, if there was a way he could refute it, he would. He knows about... the circumstances." The ADA's voice was sympathetic. "Prudholm is never going to get out again, if that's any consolation."

"He wasn't supposed to have been out this time," Hutch said bitterly. _'Maximum security,' my ass. All it took was some paper-pusher pushing the wrong piece of paper and the bastard had been free as a bird._

One lousy piece of paper, and Terry was dead.

"You, ah, want me to talk to your partner?"

"No. No, I'll tell him."

"I really appreciate that, Hutchinson. I owe you—"

Hutch hung up in the middle of the relieved thanks. _I'm not doing it for you._

Not that hearing it from Hutch was going to make Starsky feel any better. Prudholm wasn't going to be held accountable for what he did, to Terry or to the cops he had killed before. He'd live out the rest of his days in Cabrillo Point, which was a stroll in the park compared to life in the state pen. The bastard was never going to pay.

Starsky was the one who would never stop paying, in guilt and regret.

Surprisingly, there had been no explosion. Starsky's whole body seemed to vibrate with tension and his eyes were angry, but he merely nodded once, his jaw clamped tight.

After their shift, Starsky drove to the cemetery. Hutch stayed in the Torino and watched as Starsky knelt by the grave for a long time.

Eventually, Starsky stood and briefly touched the headstone before returning to the car. He didn't say anything—hadn't said anything, in fact, since they'd left the precinct—and Hutch looked at him worriedly. Hutch laid his hand on Starsky's shoulder and squeezed.

"Starsk?"

Starsky's stoic mask dropped for an instant, and Hutch caught a glimpse of the pure misery there.

 _Oh, babe._

Still silent, Starsky drove them home to his place, bypassing Hutch's. They hadn't discussed it, but they both knew there was no way Hutch was going to leave him alone tonight.

Once inside, Starsky headed directly for the fridge. He pulled out a couple of beers and handed one to Hutch. Starsky drank his down quickly and opened another, but set the second bottle down on the counter, untasted. He went to a cupboard, pulled out a box, and sat down on the kitchen floor. He reached up and snagged the beer again, took a sip, and opened the box. The book, _A Thousand Ways to Win Monopoly_ , was nestled in among the wrinkled play money and the title deeds. Starsky rummaged around, pulled out the board, and looked up at Hutch.

"Which one do you want?"

Hutch sank down to sit across from Starsky. "The race car."

Starsky gave a faint snort. "No way. I've got the car."

Hutch smiled a little. "Whatever, then." Starsky handed him the top hat.

Everything was a jumbled mess inside the box. Hutch began to gather up and sort the bills, while Starsky did the same with the cards. When he got to an orange "Chance" card, Starsky stopped.

"'Go directly to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.' That doesn't seem to be enough, Hutch." He looked up, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. "It's not enough, but it's gonna have to be." Hutch felt his own eyes fill.

"Sometimes, I wish I killed Prudholm when I had the chance," Starsky said.

 _I wish I had let you_ , Hutch thought despondently.

"Only, Terry wouldn't have wanted that. I think... I think she's glad we caught him and that he can't hurt anyone else anymore. But that's all. It's the way she was, you know? She would've been disappointed in me if I had killed him. 'You became a cop to help people,' she said."

"She was a real special lady, Starsky."

Starsky smiled sadly. "Yeah, she was. She told me that I couldn't stop living just because she was dying."

Around the lump in his throat, Hutch managed to say, "She was right. You can't."

"I know. I just... I'm not sure I know how, Hutch."

Starsky broke down sobbing and Hutch's heart, already battered, cracked wide open.

Hutch gathered his partner in as he cried, as they both cried. Starsky clung to him as though he wanted to bury himself inside Hutch. Hutch held on tight, wanting Starsky to burrow in and stay. He was determined to convince Starsky that it was okay to move forward, to live and love. In that release, there was a letting go, a washing away, a healing. Hutch could tell that the crushing pain and guilt Starsky had been carrying was finally muting into something bearable, wounds that would mend with time.

They stayed that way for a while, giving and receiving comfort as they always had. Then suddenly, the world shifted and everything changed.

 _I want him. I want to make love to him. To Starsky._

It was a new and startling thought, but not an unwelcome one. Hutch knew Starsky loved him, far more than anyone else ever had, just as he loved Starsky. To take that to the next level, to go beyond the platonic, to love someone that fully, that completely—the rightness of it took his breath away.

Starsky looked at Hutch, a stunned question in his tear-streaked face.

 _He feels it too,_ Hutch realized with amazement. In this, as in everything else, they were in tune.

Or maybe not. Starsky's expression held a roil of conflicting emotions, desire and fear prominent above all the others. They battled for supremacy, and it looked like the fear was winning.

Which was probably just as well. Belatedly, Hutch reminded himself of all the reasons why getting romantically involved with Starsky would be a bad idea. Romantica—hell, call a spade a spade—sex with Starsky would be a bad idea. Starsky, his partner, his male cop partner. An _incredibly_ bad idea. To say that gays did not fare well in the department was a massive understatement. The two of them were already accused of being "too close," whatever the hell that meant for two officers who functioned efficiently as one unit out on the streets. It was a back-handed compliment, one Hutch had been secretly proud of, but now.... Now "too close" was a red flag, a ready-made excuse for anyone who wanted it to use to take them down, hard. It meant they would be an easier target, a two-for-one special for Internal Affairs if they ever slipped and got caught. It would open a Pandora's Box that could never be closed.

Hutch tried to pull back to put some distance between them, but Starsky made a small sound of protest and his arms tightened even more around Hutch.

It was a plea for something Starsky wouldn't, or couldn't, put into words, but that didn't matter. "Me and thee" never needed words and it could not be denied.

Their lips met and parted. Tongues touched and danced.

The feel of Starsky in his mouth, the taste of him—Hutch closed his eyes and was lost in the sensations, lost in Starsky. Fingers carded through his hair to hold him firmly in place and he reveled in the possession, in being plundered over and over. In turn, he slid his hands into Starsky's dark, silky curls and did some plundering of his own.

They were lying on the floor now, stretched out, body to body. Hutch could feel Starsky's arousal, a hard, growing bulge pressing against his own awakened cock. Hutch drew a hand down, brushing over a cheek, along Starsky's neck, his chest, down to the hardness. Starsky gasped, breaking the kiss. He arched into the touch.

Panting for air, Hutch opened his eyes. Starsky's were still squeezed shut. Out of guilt? He froze with trepidation for a moment. He'd never done this before.

Starsky whimpered and his hands tightened painfully in Hutch's hair.

"Hutch—"

At the urgent entreaty, Hutch didn't hesitate any longer. Starsky needed this, he needed to do this for Starsky. Hutch unzipped Starsky's jeans, bent down and took Starsky's cock in his mouth.

Starsky groaned and bucked hard. Hutch nearly gagged and hurriedly pulled back a few inches. Starsky picked up on it immediately, releasing his punishing grip on Hutch's hair. He rubbed Hutch's scalp, as if in apology. Gently, using careful pressure with his fingertips, Starsky urged Hutch back to the task at hand. He held himself still, letting Hutch take control and set the pace.

Cautiously, Hutch tried again, pulling in as much of the shaft as he could. Once he got over the strangeness of it, he began to experiment: altering the rhythm, the angle, running his tongue around the crown and pressing against the slit. He grew more confident as Starsky began to make sounds, not of need, but of pleasure.

Hutch stroked Starsky's inner thighs, marveling at the softness of the skin there, soft over the firm muscles. At the touch of his wandering fingers, the legs parted wide and Hutch shifted over to lie between them. The heady scent of Starsky's musk filled his nostrils as he worked the turgid cock and fondled Starsky's balls.

Hutch could feel Starsky's resolve to hold back begin to crumble. His hips began to move, and his head thrashed back and forth wildly.

"Hu-Hutch, don't, gonna—" Starsky's flailing hand caught on Hutch's collar and he tried to push him away.

But Hutch was ready. He caught and stilled Starsky's fingers in a tight grip with one hand and wrapped the other around the base of Starsky's erection. He kept his head moving in counterpoint to the thrusts, just not as deep as before, using his hand to complete the stroke.

It didn't take long. In a few moments, Starsky gave out a hoarse shout, then a rush, warm and bitter, filled Hutch's mouth. Hutch waited until the pulsing stopped, then swallowed the come and lifted his head.

Starsky's face was covered in a sheen of sweat and his chest was heaving. His eyes were open now, but they didn't seem to be tracking anything. The blue in them was barely visible around the swollen pupils. He looked dazed, sated, and totally gone.

Hutch crawled back up to lay back down next to Starsky. His heart was pounding like crazy and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. Blowing Starsky had been a bigger turn-on than he could have imagined and his own cock was demanding some attention—right now. He reached down to the aching flesh to take care of business, but he found his hands being batted away.

Apparently, Starsky wasn't as far gone as Hutch had thought. He still looked dazed, but he was determinedly—if clumsily—fumbling at Hutch's belt.

Hutch tried to stop him, saying, "You don't have to—" but Starsky kept at it, finally getting the belt unbuckled and the fly unzipped, easing the pressure on Hutch's engorged cock. He couldn't help a sigh of relief, which became a hiss of pleasure as Starsky reached in and closed his fingers around Hutch's erection.

The first few strokes were tentative and awkward. When Starsky let go, Hutch thought for one awful moment he'd changed his mind. However, before Hutch could move to take over himself, Starsky shifted to his side and reached for Hutch with his left hand. More comfortable, he began working the hard-on in earnest, running down and up the length of the cock, circling the tip and rubbing against the slit with his thumb.

Hutch brought his hand down over Starsky's, not so much to guide him as to feel this incredible thing from without as well as within. The movement of Starsky's hand, giving him pleasure, making him feel so good...

Then a subtle shift in rhythm and pressure, a slight twist of the wrist, and Hutch lost the power of coherent thought. There was just the amazing sensations racing under his skin, coursing through his body, rippling outward from his center, his cock, and his partner's hand...

He cried out, something between a sob and a groan, a curse and a benediction. Starsky held on as he came, and Hutch held on to him, both their hands wrapped around Hutch's throbbing organ.

When it was over Starsky let go of Hutch's cock, but otherwise didn't move away. With his arm draped over Hutch's middle, he leaned into Hutch's shoulder and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Hutch lay there on the hard floor with Starsky in his arms, the taste of Starsky still on his tongue, his scent still in his nose and on his skin. He listened to Starsky breathe, watched him as he slept. In that moment, David Starsky was his whole world.

That one brief moment.

*****

  


Starsky shuffled slowly into the living room and stopped. His eyes went to the kitchen, to the spot where they... but there was nothing to see. Hutch had cleaned up hours ago, after he had hauled Starsky off the floor and put him to bed.

Starsky turned away and sat down heavily. He rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair, swallowed hard, all without looking up or saying a word.

Hutch watched him from the far end of the couch. He'd been up all night, too anxious to sleep. His head was pounding, but not as hard or as fast as his heart. He watched and waited, his mouth dry.

Finally, Starsky took a deep breath and looked up at Hutch. Regret was etched into Starsky's face and Hutch felt his heart drop. Even before Starsky opened his mouth, Hutch knew what the words were going to be.

"Last night. What happened, that.... You went above and beyond the call, Hutch, helping me out that way. I appreciate what you did. But I shouldn't have... I mean, it was...." Starsky stopped.

"Damn it, Starsky," Hutch burst out, "if you say it was a mistake, so help me...."

"An accident."

"Oh, yeah, that's so much better than a mistake." Sarcasm was a poor defense against the hurt and disappointment, but it was all Hutch had, so he used it.

"No, that's not what I meant. What happened..."

"It's called sex, Starsky."

Starsky flinched at the derisive tone as though slapped, but went on doggedly, "It was good, and I needed it. I admit it. But we can't let it happen again. I mean, it's not like...."

 _It's not like you love me that way._

"It was just a one-time thing. It has to be, don't you see?" Starsky insisted. "If we start messing around, it's gonna get too damned complicated. If other cops find out, we're dead meat. They'll hang us out to dry, if they don't sic IA on us first."

All true. Hutch had told himself the very same things. They were all true, all good reasons for them to close that door and keep it closed. There was only the one reason to open it.

"Can we forget this happened, put it behind us?"

Starsky not only didn't want to open the door; apparently, he wanted to lock it, throw away the key, and nail it shut besides.

"I don't want things to change between us," he pleaded.

 _Too fucking late,_ thought Hutch bleakly, closing his eyes.

 _I didn't ask for this, I didn't want it. Hell, I never wanted it, to wrap up every last scrap of who I was around someone. But it's too late. Probably had been, from the get-go._

 _Starsky thinks we've crossed some kind of line. But he's wrong. The fact is, there is no line. There never was._

"Hutch?"

Hutch opened his eyes and looked at his partner. Starsky was miserable, but adamant. He meant what he said.

Hutch tried to dredge up some righteous indignation, but it wasn't in him. There was no anger, no guilt, no shame. Just emptiness and loss. Loss of something he never even had, it seemed. A dream, shattered before it was realized.

He was wrong, they hadn't opened Pandora's Box. If they had, at least there would be hope still left inside.

As Hutch turned away, he caught sight of the little stuffed bear, sitting forgotten on the counter.

 _'To dearest Hutch, to you I entrust Ollie and Dave. Please love them both. Don't let either one of them change.'_

 _No fair, Terry,_ he thought. _No fair to bind me with a responsibility that you can never relieve me of._

He picked up the bear and stared into its sightless eyes.

 _Don't let them change._

How he was supposed to do that, Hutch hadn't a fucking clue. But he'd have to, somehow. For Starsky's sake, if not for Terry's.

"You understand, don't you Hutch? We're good, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we're good."

 

  
**\- V -**   


_Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me remind you, that we are all on the same side. Now, the Justice Department has been watching this case very closely and appreciates all the help. Thank you, Captain. Have a nice day._

The disdainful brush-off was no surprise—a classic tactic in the Feds' SOP. Hutch wasn't sure if their arrogant attitude was nature or nurture, but strongly suspected it was both, some kind of secret selective breeding process that produced cookie-cutter assholes ready-made to wear the cheap suits. Certainly, it wasn't the first time they'd been stonewalled by G-men. Never failed to piss him off, though, and this time was no exception.

 _"All on the same side," my ass. Smug, insufferable bastards. Like it's some kind of fucking game._

But Hutch could play the game too. And he was playing to win. With his partner at stake, he couldn't afford not to.

After Starsky left, Hutch spent the rest of the afternoon at Metro, on the phone or looking up files. None of his calls seemed to get him anywhere, and he moved reports from one stack on his desk to another with monotonous and discouraging regularity. He did go out to grab a quick bite to eat, at a nearby greasy spoon whose only redeeming feature, at least as far as Hutch was concerned, was a pay phone hidden in the back. But other than that, he pointedly remained in plain sight of anyone who might have cared to look.

After his shift, he drove straight home, puttered around with his plants for a while, and went to bed. He doubted that Goodsen and Chambers would go so far as to set up surveillance on his place. They were probably concentrating their peeping tom efforts on Starsky and Rosie. Still, it didn't hurt to be careful. He lay awake in the dark for a few hours, waiting and thinking.

The Pits was nearly empty when he got there, and a quick scan assured him that none of the remaining patrons were likely to be Justice Department material. No Senate Committee members either, but that took another, longer glance to satisfy him.

Huggy raised an inquiring brow at a Hutch without a Starsky, but before he could comment about it, Hutch asked without preamble, "So, what you got?"

"Word out on the street is, Frank Malone's cruisin' for a bruisin'. Ray Shelby wants him bad."

This wasn't news, but the confirmation wasn't heartening, either. Hutch bounced a clenched fist on the bar top. "Damn it. Why?"

"He thinks Malone's selling out to The Man."

Hutch said testily, "Just because he's been subpoenaed to testify in Federal Court doesn't mean he's selling out."

Huggy leaned in. "That's just it. There's a rumor floating around saying the subpoena's been dropped."

"What?"

"You know what _that_ means."

Hutch did indeed. _Fuck._ "That's bullshit. Sons of bitches, they're pulling a squeeze play."

Huggy nodded. "Add that to the fact that Shelby just got busted by Malone's daughter's new boyfriend in blue, and it's no wonder Shelby wants Malone's head on a platter."

Hutch blinked. "How'd you—"

Huggy looked mildly affronted at his surprise. "Hey, you tell me put my ear to the ground, I hear _everything_ , man. So it's true, huh? Starsky's making time with Malone's daughter. Nice work if you can get it."

Hutch rubbed his face wearily. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? Trouble is, Starsky's not acting, Hug."

"Say what? It's not an undercover gig?"

"It is. Or, it was. Now..."

Huggy's eyes were wide with concern. "Geez, Hutch. There's no way in hell this can work out, for either of them."

"I know."

"Well then, why aren't you stopping it?"

"Don't you think I've tried?"

Ignoring the belligerent tone, Huggy eyed him carefully. "No, I don't think you have, not really."

Thing is, Hutch _had_ tried. He had warned Starsky, gave him the "police business" and "you're a cop first" speech to snap him out of it, but it hadn't done a damned thing, except maybe twisted the knife a little more in his partner's gut. Being caught between love and duty was tearing Starsky apart, and Hutch could no more ignore that pain than he could stop breathing.

"He thinks this is his shot at happiness, Hug. Maybe his last chance to grab the brass ring."

"He tell you that?"

"He didn't need to. I saw it in his eyes. He loves her." Hutch was vaguely aware of a faint sense of pride that he managed to say that without betraying the turmoil within him. Starsky wasn't the only one with his gut in shreds.

Huggy snorted skeptically. "That's a crock of shit. He's known the chick, what? Can't be more'n a few days."

"Don't you believe in love at first sight?"

Huggy shook his head and pursed his lips. "Don't tell me you do."

Hutch's eyes slid away, down into his mug. He had believed in it, once upon a time, even though it had never happened to him, that lightning strike that arrests the heart. Not with Vanessa, not with Gillian, not with any of the women he had fallen in and out of lust with.

And what he felt for Starsky? That defied labeling, but it certainly wasn't love at first sight, even if the sexual desire had struck in that lightning-bolt way. It was love from innumerable sightings, growing over the years out of deep friendship and true affection.

Love at first sight. No, Hutch didn't believe in it anymore, but obviously Starsky wanted to, desperately.

Hutch had tried to accept it and be supportive. Having Starsky as a partner and best friend was gift enough; more than he deserved, and he knew it. Wanting more than what Starsky was willing to give—he couldn't help the wanting, so all he could do was try to keep it buried, to not to let it come between them and ruin their relationship.

"Starsky says he loves the lady, and that's good enough for me, Huggy."

"Is it?" When Hutch didn't answer, Huggy went on, "Look, I don't suppose it's any of my business, but I've known you two cats since the beginning of time, and Starsky even longer than that. So, I'm just gonna come right out and say it: When are you guys gonna stop dancing around each other and start dancing _with_ each other?"

Hutch stared in shock. Huggy returned the gaze steadily. "Just statin' the obvious, my man."

Hutch couldn't dissemble or deflect, and it wouldn't have done any good even if he tried. Huggy clearly wasn't buying.

"Obvious, huh?" Hutch said, weakly, for lack of a better response.

"Well, leastwise, obvious to me." Huggy's tone softened. "It's been coming on, gradual. I don't guess most folks have noticed anything. The two of you have always been joined at the hip."

Hutch barked out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, there's irony for you. He... doesn't want to dance."

"Are you sure? 'Cause I ain't. I don't think he is." At Hutch's stony look, Huggy threw up his hands. "Fine. But what about you, my brother? This thing's eating you up inside. How long you think you can keep this up?"

It was a question that had crossed his mind so often, it had worn a groove deep in his brain. And like every other well-trodden path, it always led to the same place.

 _As long as I have to._

"None of this matters, Hug. His love life is none of my business. He's my partner first. I told him I'd back up his play, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. If the Feds have their way, they'll use him as a pawn and leave him to twist in the wind. I'll be damned if I let that happen."

"You gonna call him, let him know what's going down?"

Hutch glanced at the clock. Past eleven. Starsky and Rosey would be....

"It'll keep 'til morning, I think." He nodded his thanks and left, not wanting to linger under Huggy's too-knowing gaze, sympathetic though it was.

Morning was a long time coming. Hutch was back to lying awake in the dark, but this time with Huggy's parting words echoing in his ears:

 _"Some things can keep, others can't. Just you remember that, Hutch."_

 

  
**  
~~\- VI -~~   
**   


The machines beeped and flashed and hissed, more alive than the man they worked to sustain.

But he was alive, still.

Hutch groped behind him for the chair, pulled it close to the bed, and sank down into it. The adrenaline that had picked him up and flew him here from the station was gone, used up. He was running on fumes, on the verge of collapsing into the hollowness inside like a crumpled paper cup, but he couldn't afford to give in to it, not yet.

His vision, all his senses, really, narrowed down to the man who lay before him, insensate, unresponsive.

The doctor had shocked Starsky three times, Huggy told him, but it looked like it wasn't going to work. Starsky's heart had stopped beating, he was clinically dead. But somehow he had fought his way back. Hutch watched the faint rise and fall of Starsky's chest with something akin to terrified wonder.

Starsky was still teetering on the cusp, his fragile connection to the here and now stretched gossamer thin and strained to the breaking point. Hutch could feel it. From one breath to the next, taut and vibrating in the air. One tug, the thread would snap, and Starsky would slip away....

Hutch reached out.

He'd been too afraid to touch before, terrified of upsetting the balance of life and death. Now, he was even more afraid not to. His hand curled around Starsky's bicep, as if by tethering the body, somehow he could anchor the soul. As if the grasp of a mere mortal could keep Starsky from choosing the light and leaving Hutch alone in the darkness.

Hutch bent his head close to Starsky's. He didn't know if Starsky could hear him or not, but he had no intention of speaking out loud anyway. They had always communicated best by a glance and a touch. Starsky's eyes were closed; Hutch couldn't look into them now, but he could still touch.

 _You can't leave me, Starsk. You can't. We've come too far for this to happen now. Through hell and back more than once, so you cannot give up on us. Damn it, Starsky, you're the toughest bad-ass cop there is. You've got to fight._

 _I need you. I love you. I can't do this without you, I can't be a cop, I can't... be._

 _I know I'm a selfish bastard, and maybe it's wrong, but I won't let you go. You got that? I won't. I can't._

His head dropped down until it rested next to his hand, on Starsky's lax arm.

 _Not like this, not today, not without me. No._

 

  
**\- VI -**   


"So I ask you again, Detective Hutchinson, isn't it true that you had a personal grudge against the defendant?"

It was a typical defense attorney move, to take the offensive. Hutch wasn't surprised by the attack, but it still rankled.

"No, that is not true."

"Oh, come now." The tone was faintly derisive and designed to irritate. "We've already heard testimony that your partner, Detective David Starsky, was shot and nearly killed, allegedly on the orders of my client, James Gunther. Are you telling this court that you did not have a personal stake in seeing Mr. Gunther put behind bars?"

"No, I—"

"Of course you did. Your partner was gunned down right in front of your eyes. Of course it was personal. Someone had to pay, someone had to take the blame. This was your crusade, your private vendetta."

Hutch tried to unclench his fists. _Calm, stay calm._

"So you mounted a witch hunt against my client. You harassed his associates, bullied his employees, wreaked havoc with his family; why, you even manufactured evidence just so you could avenge your partner's—"

"I did _not_ —" Hutch jerked forward forcefully, but caught himself before actually leaping to his feet.

Unfortunately, it was too little, too late.

"Not good, Hutch."

Hutch slumped back in his chair. "Damn. Sorry, Ellen."

The ADA shook her head. "It's too easy to rile you. This can't happen on the stand. If you let the defense attorneys get under your skin, they will skin you and eat you alive. There won't be much I can do."

Hutch nodded, dejected. "I know."

Ellen came over and perched a hip on the edge of the table. She tilted her head and gave Hutch a stern look.

"This case hinges on you, detective. Don't forget that. Most of the evidence—" she waved her hand at the wall of Bankers Boxes stacked on the far side of the room "—is complicated, convoluted, and dry, dry, dry. Holding companies, shell corporations, dummy subsidiaries. Spreadsheets and paper trails. Boring as all get out. Not the least bit sexy, and jurors like sexy." She grinned and tapped a finger on his chest. "You, my dear, are _sexy_."

Hutch snorted. "Gee, thanks."

"Don't give me that 'aw, shucks' routine, Hutch. You know what I mean. Your testimony is what will put the flesh and blood on this case, make it come alive to the twelve citizens sitting in that box. When you get on the stand, you will become the face of justice battling against the big, bad, powerful Gunther machine. An honest-to-God David versus Goliath story, and you know how the first one turned out." She reached out and pinched Hutch's cheek playfully. Her grin turned wry. "Of course, it sure doesn't hurt that this face is easy on the eyes. You clean up very nicely, you do."

Hutch reflexively touched his upper lip. Ellen had bluntly insisted he shave off the mustache and cut his hair— _"Can't have you walking around looking more disreputable than the criminals,"_ she'd said—and he was still getting used to the change. He smiled a little self-consciously. "You're not so bad yourself, counselor."

"Aw, shucks." She gave a mock bow.

There was no question that the jurors, especially the male ones, were going to enjoy looking at Ellen Harshaw. She was a striking-looking woman with a heart-shaped face framed by dark, shoulder-length hair. Her features had a touch of exotic in them, thanks to a Korean grandmother, Hutch had learned. She was slender but with curves where they counted, on a perfectly proportioned frame that made her appear taller than she actually was.

She definitely wasn't just a pretty face, though. Poised, sharp, and articulate, she'd graduated with honors from Columbia Law School, and cut her teeth in the trenches of the New York courts. She had only recently moved to California, but her reputation as an aggressive, hard-hitting prosecutor preceded her. It was a reputation, Hutch had found, to be entirely well-deserved. In fact, he hadn't been told the half, and it didn't take long for him to figure that out. After working together on the Gunther case for a few days, Hutch had been impressed with her quick intelligence and grasp of the legal essentials. Ellen, in turn, had expressed admiration for the wealth of information Hutch had dug up during his investigation.

"What a lovely can of worms you've brought me, detective," she'd murmured, her eyes bright. "Lots and lots of dirty worms."

During the weeks that followed, they fell into an easy friendship, springing from a mutual desire to see Gunther and his entire criminal empire brought to its knees. A win in court would be a huge feather in her cap, naturally, but Hutch sensed that the case meant more to her than merely another notch on her briefcase. Ellen was the daughter of a cop and in complete sympathy with Hutch's feelings. Her clear-headed approach to the trial kept Hutch's attention focused on the prep work that needed to be done, and there was a lot of that to keep him busy. He didn't have the time or energy to spend on useless anger and frustration.

Well, mostly. Right now, it seemed he had some to spare.

"Damn it, I know how important this is." He slapped the table, exasperated with himself. "I'll do better, I promise."

Ellen sighed. "It's Starsky, isn't it?" Hutch blinked, and she went on, "You're rock-solid and cool as the proverbial cucumber until I mention Starsky. That's when you blow it."

That was true, of course, and Hutch knew it. When had he ever been cool where Starsky was concerned? And what she had said about this being a personal vendetta—that had hit uncomfortably close to home.

"Look," she said, more gently, "the other side is going to keep filing pre-trial motions for as long as they can, and if they're creative enough, they'll be doing it for a good long while yet to come. We still have a lot of time to work on your testimony."

Instead of mollifying him, that just pissed him off more.

"Yeah, too much time. Just how long before that man gets what's coming to him, huh?"

"You know how these things go." Ellen shrugged and walked over to the coffee pot in the corner of the conference room. "The wheels of justice turn slowly, but they _are_ turning. And even with all his expensive lawyers, he hasn't gotten bail. So at least he's behind bars for the duration." She returned with two styrofoam cups and handed Hutch one. "Don't look at it as a negative. Think of it as more time for us to get our ducks in a row, to make our bulletproof case even more bulletproof, _and_ for you to get your act together. Got it?"

"Okay, okay, I got it." He nodded and tapped his cup against hers.

"Good. I know it's a lot of pressure, Hutch, but when the time comes, you're going to do just fine. You've really put in some stellar work on this case, and it's going to pay off big time." They sipped in companionable silence for a minute, then she said, "You know, the D.A.'s Office could use a smart, experienced investigator like you on-staff. Are you interested?"

Startled, Hutch said, "I... I'm flattered, Ellen, but once Starsky re-qualifies, we're going to be back on our beat." A familiar dread washed over him, but he'd schooled himself not to let it show. Ever since Starsky declared he was going to take back what was his, Hutch had resolved to support him one hundred percent, Hutch's own fears be damned. Frankly, the thought of Starsky being hurt again terrified the shit out of him, but Hutch knew he had to be there to watch his partner's back. Otherwise, someone else would be assigned to do it, and there was simply no way Hutch was going to let that happen.

Ellen seemed to understand what Hutch left unsaid. "Well, consider it a standing offer." She looked at her wristwatch. "Oh, goodness. Look at the time. I'm sorry, Hutch, I didn't realize it was so late."

Hutch glanced at the wall clock: 8:26. "Well, it's hardly a record for us, now is it?"

"I guess that's true," she admitted. "But you haven't eaten, you must be starved. You want to grab a bite?"

"Thanks, but I'm beat. Maybe some other time."

She nodded amiably as she quickly gathered up her things. They left the building together, parted ways at the parking garage.

"Good night, Hutch. I'll call you in a few days. Say 'hi' to Starsky for me."

He watched as she drove off in a red Mustang. It made him think with a slight pang of the Torino, sitting quietly in a corner of the impound lot.

Hutch chided himself as he got into his beater. The tomato would be fine. Hutch had already made arrangements to have her towed to Merle's as soon as she was released. The Earl promised he would work his magic. He would patch the bullet holes, repair all the damage, make her as good as new.

 _As good as new, please. The car and Starsky both._

Hutch drove on autopilot in the darkness. He almost missed the turnoff to Venice Place, because he was so accustomed to staying at Starsky's. But Starsky had put an end to that two weeks ago, insisting that he didn't need a babysitter any more.

"I'm gonna be fine, Hutch. I need you to go home now."

Logic told him that Starsky was right. Starsky was almost fully recovered from his injuries. He didn't need an anxious Hutch hovering over him like a hen with only one chick. So Hutch returned to his apartment without protest.

In a way, it was a relief. As much as he loved being so close to Starsky, Hutch knew it was a double-edged sword. While he kept an eye on Starsky, Starsky was keeping an eye on him—both eyes, in fact.

Watching, always watching. At first, Hutch knew it was because it was just about all Starsky _could_ do. His body immobilized by the pain, his eyes were the most active part of him, and they always latched onto Hutch as soon as he was in view. It didn't matter who or what else was in the room, Starsky's eyes homed in on Hutch and followed his movements intently. He'd do it even when the meds made him groggy and messed with his memory. It had torn Hutch up to see those baby blues then—cloudy and hurting, clinging to him, asking him questions for which he had no answers, no comfort.

When Starsky's condition improved and he began to work on his recovery, those eyes fastened on to Hutch with even more fervor. Hutch was with him every step of the way, and with every shared glance he gave Starsky everything he could, whatever his partner needed to get through the moment: sometimes gentle encouragement, sometimes a figurative kick in the ass. Love and assurance of a future, always.

 _In sickness and in health, until death do us part_ —he'd said the words once upon a time and meant them, but now they resonated with him in a way they never had before, for not even death had parted him from Starsky. He was sworn to this man by a pledge that was as binding and as sacred as any marriage vow. Their bond _was_ a marriage, in every way save one.

Hutch had promised that this one thing wouldn't matter, that it wouldn't change things between them, and he'd tried his best to keep the promise. He'd tried to bury the want, smothering it in the hopes that it would die and leave him content with the way things were. He'd been trying for nearly three years, but it was no good. His craving for Starsky was stronger than ever.

Hutch simply didn't have it in him, didn't know the first thing about how _not_ to want Starsky. It was all part and parcel of who Starsky was to him. Hutch could no longer even remember what it was like to love his partner without loving him _that_ way. Trying to bury that was like trying to bury an elephant with a teaspoon. No matter how hard you dug, you could never make a hole deep enough.

When it wouldn't stay buried, Hutch had fought it. Only trouble was, that meant fighting himself... and fighting Starsky. Oh, he damn near killed it then, damn near killed everything: their careers, their partnership, their friendship. It was a miracle they managed to survive, "me and thee" somehow holding them together despite the incredible strain. When the dust settled and they took their badges back, Hutch realized he'd been given a reprieve, a last chance to get things right.

Then came the attack in the parking lot, and all bets were off.

During those long dark days when Starsky's life hung in limbo, Hutch's own soul was suspended in an agony of uncertainty and despair. It wasn't until Starsky opened his eyes that Hutch started living again. The last chance he thought had been taken away was still in his hands. He had one final opportunity, and he was determined not to fuck it up.

With a new-found calmness, Hutch realized that what he felt for Starsky could neither be denied nor defeated. He would just have to learn to live with his unrequited feelings. It wasn't a new resolve, but this time it was made with the knowledge that the alternative was simply impossible to contemplate.

That day, Hutch let go of the resentment and anger he'd felt toward Starsky that had festered inside and ate away at him for far too long. It wasn't Starsky's fault that he didn't find Hutch desirable, any more than it was the wind's fault for blowing. Starsky was... Starsky. He still loved Hutch. That would have to be enough.

It wasn't hard, especially at first. In the aftermath of the shooting, Hutch had only two things on his mind: Starsky's recovery and Gunther's trial. Everything else, including his own needs, came way down on his list of priorities.

But now both the recovery and trial were going well and were no longer urgent issues. Starsky, being Starsky, would eventually start dating again, maybe even settle down with one woman. Hutch, being Hutch, would have to find a way to deal, to be happy when that happened. Really, truly happy, not just faking it either, because Starsky was still keeping an eye on him. Watching, always watching.

Hutch pulled up to the curb in front of Venice Place and went inside. He entered his apartment and turned on the lights. It felt cold and empty, and he held back a sigh as he hung up his gun and holster.

He opened the fridge and reached for a beer, but then thought better of it. Despite the strong coffee he'd had less than an hour ago, he felt the strain of the long day weighing him down. Stifling a yawn, Hutch picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Starsk."

"Hutch. You're late."

Confused, Hutch replied, "Late for what? Was I supposed to do something, meet you somewhere?"

"Nah, relax, Blintz." Starsky chuckled, but it sounded forced. "I only meant you're calling later than usual. You just get in?"

"Yes, _mom_. Had a meeting with Ellen, ran a little long. She said 'hi,' by the way."

"Yeah? How's it going?"

"Ah, the usual. Coming along, slowly. How was PT?"

"Pretty good, actually. I graduated today."

"You—what?"

"Had my last session with the torture team," Starsky said triumphantly.

"That... that's great news, buddy." Hutch stammered. And it was. But, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wanted to surprise ya."

"Oh. Well... I'm surprised. But in a good way," he hastened to add. He pushed the slight hurt aside. It really _was_ great news, coming nearly a month sooner than the doctors and therapists had expected.

"Yeah, I am officially a 'normal' person."

"I hate to break it to you, but you were never normal."

"Yeah? The physio must've worked better than we thought, then."

"It worked a miracle, Starsk."

"Yeah." There was wonder in Starsky's voice, and Hutch had to swallow hard against the lump that suddenly formed in his throat.

"Hey, we should celebrate. You want to hit the Pits for a beer? You know, before I cut you off again?"

"Aw, Hutch, you gotta be kidding. Seriously?"

"You're still in training, Starsk. No drinking until you pass the physicals to get reinstated, remember?"

There was an odd pause, then Starsky said, "You're mean, you know that? Anyway, it's late. You work tomorrow."

Hutch smiled ruefully to himself. There was a time when the night didn't begin until after 10:00. These days it ended by 9:00. _We're getting old, babe._

"Tomorrow night, then."

"Only if you're bringing a couple of six-packs with you."

" _One_. I'll bring one six-pack."

"'Kay. I'll order pizza."

"Okay."

Hutch hung up before he could say something stupid. Not that "I love you" was stupid. Starsky wouldn't have thought twice about it, might even have said it back. But those words would have led to other ones—words that, once said, he could never take back—and _that_ would have been stupid.

 _This is good. This is great. I'm happy for him._

 _Be happy, damn it._

*****

  


Hutch gave a perfunctory tap on the door and entered Starsky's place, six-pack in hand. "Starsk?"

A muffled "Yeah, be right there" came from the direction of the bathroom. Hutch headed for the fridge to put away the beer, but halfway there he stopped short.

The table was set with a fancy tablecloth, one Hutch had never seen before. There were candles, a bottle of red wine and wine glasses. And in the middle....

"Hey."

Hutch turned to see Starsky standing behind him.

"So, what do you think, Hutch?"

What did he think? Hutch looked at the table again and he was suddenly transported back, oh God, how many years?

 _Hey! Hey, that's my favorite! How'd you know?_

 _I called your mother up._

 _You called my mother?_

 _Yeah, she calls it...._

"The Paul Muni Special," Hutch murmured, astonished. It smelled heavenly.

"Yeah. It's been a while, huh?"

They'd both made Mrs. Starsky's pot roast a few times since, although it _had_ been a while. But what struck Hutch was the setting, the... presentation. It was almost exactly as he'd done it the first time, when Hutch was trying to help Starsky get over Helen Davisson's death.

 _What are the candles for, you expecting someone?_

Hutch had dismissed the comment as more of the smart-ass deflecting Starsky had been doing all that afternoon and had said something equally flippant in reply. All of a sudden, he saw the scene from a new perspective. Now he realized how it looked, what it meant.

 _I was courting him. Even back then, my heart already knew._

But what the hell did _this_ mean?

"Well?" Starsky's voice was soft and very close. Hutch didn't turn around.

"It's... it's not pizza," he stammered out.

A puff of air brushed his ear as Starsky said, "No, I changed my mind."

Hutch jumped as Starsky's hand closed on his, then he realized Starsky was taking the forgotten beer out of his grasp. He watched Starsky open and close the fridge.

When Starsky turned back, Hutch noticed he had taken some pains getting ready for their dinner. Instead of his usual lounging-around clothes, Starsky was wearing a nice shirt and slacks; nothing fancy, but something he'd normally use to go out, to a classy restaurant or the like. He looked great—not that he needed to dress up to look good to Hutch. He wasn't back to his fighting weight yet, but he was healthy and vibrant, with the light back in his blue eyes. The aura that was uniquely Starsky's filled the room.

Damn, he was sexy.

With a start, Hutch found Starsky watching him intently with those eyes. Hurriedly, he sat down.

The food was delicious and Hutch was hungry, but he was too nervous to fully appreciate the meal. Starsky was on edge as well. He seemed to be working himself up to saying something, and Hutch was both dying and dreading to know what. They ate quietly, the silence only occasionally broken by half-hearted attempts at stilted conversation.

Hutch bore up under Starsky's mesmerizing gaze as long as he could, but as the minutes passed, the tension grew until the strain threatened to break him.

"Hey, we're supposed to be celebrating," he said, finally.

Starsky dropped his eyes to his wine. He took a deep breath and said, "Hutch, I've been thinking, and I... I'm not gonna try to re-qualify."

It was the one thing Hutch never expected to hear. "What? B-but why?" Then a horrible thought slithered ice-cold through his mind. He blurted out, "Did the doctors say something, are you—"

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm fine, really." Starsky grabbed Hutch's arm and squeezed it reassuringly. "If I keep working at it, I'd be ready for the physicals in a couple of months. But in here," he tapped his chest with his fist, "I don't have the drive, the edge, anymore.

"At first, I thought it was 'cause I was so weak, and everything hurt so much, y'know? I figured when I got better, I'd feel more like my old self. I kept waiting, but it didn't happen. Being a cop was all I wanted my whole life and I couldn't believe I had stopped wanting it."

Hutch's mouth was so dry, it was hard to get words out, but he managed to say, "Starsk, you just need more time."

Starsky shook his head. "No, that ain't it. You see, I figured out I wanted something else more, a lot more." He slid his hand down to take Hutch's hand and pull it toward him. "Hutch, you remember when we... when I said I didn't want things to change between us?"

Hutch could only nod.

"How would you feel if I told you I've changed my mind?"

It was what Hutch had hoped for, had dreamed of for so long. The one thing he wanted above all other things.

Therefore, it couldn't possibly be real.

"Starsky, it was just one night. You wanted to forget it ever happened." Hutch forced himself to play devil's advocate. He could feel hope spring up inside him, and knew if it was unfounded, he had to rip it out now, before it took root. Otherwise, it would kill him.

"I did," Starsky admitted. "Not because I didn't want you. Because it scared the shit outta me, having you be... everything. Seems stupid, now. You already were everything, I just couldn't see it. Wouldn't admit it, to myself, to you."

"So what's different now?"

"After the shit with Kira...." Hutch winced. Starsky shook their clasped hands lightly. "No, let me just say this. It was like the light bulb finally went on, you know? I realized I was trying to want someone and something that didn't exist—except in you.

"I hurt you, and I'm sorry. But I'm done with that crap now, Hutch. Done fighting with myself."

Gesturing to the remains of their dinner, Starsky said, "You remember when we did this the first time? You told me I should watch the sunsets because beautiful things like sunsets don't last forever. Well, I've been watching a lot of sunsets lately, and you were right, Hutch. I never stopped to appreciate what was right in front of me until it was almost too late.

"I'm not going to do that anymore." Starsky cupped Hutch's face between his hands. "'Cause I can't lose this.

"I remember what you looked like when I woke up. A lot of that time's kinda fuzzy, and I ain't never gonna get back all of it, but I do remember that. Like sunshine through the clouds. God, you were beautiful. You still are." He ran a thumb gently over the bare upper lip.

Hutch could feel his face, and even his ears, turn red. As Starsky chuckled, he tried to pull away, but the hands wouldn't let him go.

"Oh, no, you're not getting away that easy, not when I got you where I want you. And I do want you."

Starsky's eyes were darker than he'd ever seen them. They bore into him, pierced him through. Hutch shuddered, but did not look away.

Those eyes saw everything: who Hutch was, all the things he would be, and all the things he never would. The secrets and the guilt, the regrets and the fear—once so painstakingly buried and hidden, they were suddenly revealed as effortlessly as flinging back a curtain. Hutch stood naked before those eyes.

"I shoulda known, Hutch. Looking at you is looking into the face of love. It always has been."

Hutch shook his head helplessly. It was almost too much. In Starsky's eyes, there was love, acceptance, trust.

And desire. It glowed hot in those incredible eyes like the bluest flame and burned away every doubt, every fear.

Hutch gasped and pulled Starsky to him in a hard, crushing kiss. Or maybe it was Starsky, with his hands already touching Hutch's face, who was doing the pulling. Hutch couldn't tell and didn't care. They met in the middle, two halves bonding as one. Truly becoming more than the sum of their parts.

Hutch would thereafter always think of this as the first time they made love. Sweet and slow, it was a balm and a healing as much as an act of passion. In this meeting of flesh, soul and spirit, they came together, they were made whole, they were complete.

Hutch was finally home.

*****

  


"So, I thought I'd, ah, go back to school. Get a teaching degree. Think maybe I could show some of those wet-behind-the-ears cadets at the Academy a thing or two?"

Hutch smiled at the man in his arms. "Definitely. You'll make a great instructor, Starsk."

Starsky suddenly sobered. "Hutch, I feel like I'm abandoning you."

"Don't worry, you're not. Don't forget who wanted out of this game first."

Starsky's expression cleared a little. "You mean it? 'Cause I gotta say, I don't think I can handle it if you stayed on the streets, babe. If I can't be there to watch your back...." He pressed his forehead to Hutch's chest. "I know I'm being selfish, but—"

"You're not being selfish. I'm ready to move on. As long as I have you, I don't need the badge."

That earned him a kiss.

Several kisses later, Starsky asked, "So what do you think you want to do?"

Hutch told him about Ellen's offer. He wasn't absolutely sure he wanted the job yet, although he did enjoy the pure investigative research more than he thought he would. It was nice to have options, though. Starsky, on the other hand, was immediately excited at the prospect.

"It'd be a real good move for you, Hutch. You'd be great at it. Hell, you _are_ great at it already. You'd make more money, too, which would be a major plus, seeing as how I'm gonna be a poor student for a while, and you'll have to pick up the pizza and bar tab. Not to mention—"

Hutch silenced him in the best possible way. But when he pulled back, Starsky's eyes were a little worried.

"You're good with this, for keeps? I gotta know, babe. No doubts, no regrets?"

Amazed, Hutch stared at the man who knew him best—better than he knew himself, most times. How could Starsky not know this, of all things?

No, Hutch had no doubts, no regrets. Even beyond the job, the partnership would not be broken. _They_ would not be broken.

"Never could say no to you, Starsk."


End file.
